


do you wanna be my sidekick, sidekick

by suzukiblu



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Natasha Romanov, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Amnesia, Beta Steve Rogers, Comfort Eater Bucky Barnes, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fluff, Fuck Or Suffer Unspecified Health Consequences, Internalized Dehumanization, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Omega Bucky Barnes, Omega Sam Wilson, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Stress Baker Sam Wilson, asset!bucky, mostly Winterfalcon tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 22:36:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15204962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: “Hey . . . soldier,” Sam says slowly, and the Winter Soldier lifts his head and gives him a blank look. Sam wonders if he’s about to die, because goddamn is he gonna bepissedif this is how he goes. “All good?”“I’m functioning to acceptable parameters,” the Winter Soldier says.“Great,” Sam says. “Awesome.”The Winter Soldier keeps staring at him. The VA did not prepare him for this shit.“Want a blondie?” he says finally, for lack of anything else.





	do you wanna be my sidekick, sidekick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZepysGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZepysGirl/gifts).



> This is for zepysgirl, who wanted something based on [this meta](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/tagged/the-stress-baker-sam-wilson-AU/chrono). Actually they gave me a few different choices, this was just the first one to ping me with a proper idea. 
> 
> I. I got carried away. :X

Most of the Avengers are operating under the radar now, also known as “illegally as hell”, and Sam is mostly fine with that. Mostly. 

Sometimes it’s two AM in an unfamiliar safehouse, he can’t sleep, and Cap’s favorite disaster is visiting from Wakanda. A test drive, apparently--just a few days back out in the world, or at least as out in the world as they get these days. Which had been fine, right up until they’d gotten a tip about a _HYDRA_ safehouse and Sam had realized it was his month to hold down the fort while Steve and the others took it out. 

Meaning, he’s alone with Barnes. 

Barnes is the special kind of annoying only another omega can manage, but more concerningly still not stable. Sometimes he has these little . . . _slips_. The Winter Soldier is actually less annoying, but a lot more concerning. He seems to think Steve’s in charge of him, though, and he usually listens to Nat, so it could be worse. Sam is not thrilled about the possibility of him turning up when it’s just the two of them, is the problem. He does not have either a lifetime of borderline codependent friendship or an alpha voice to fall back on. 

Unfortunately, that had only occurred to him _after_ Steve and Nat and Wanda had all cleared out. 

Jesus. 

So yes, it’s two AM and Sam is too stressed out to sleep and stuck in a safehouse with an omega who’s either annoying as hell or _dangerous_ as hell and probably isn’t sleeping all that easy himself. Situation not ideal. Situation not ideal at _all_. 

So he does the only thing he can think to do, which is indulge in the old standby of emptying every cupboard in the kitchen in pursuit of ingredients and baking a batch of blondies from scratch. And then they’re still not back and he finds the baker’s chocolate, so it’s time for brownies now too, it looks like, that’s gonna be--

Barnes is standing on the other side of the counter. 

Except it’s definitely not Barnes in there. 

Fuck. 

“Hey . . . soldier,” Sam says slowly, and the Winter Soldier lifts his head and gives him a blank look. Sam wonders if he’s about to die, because goddamn is he gonna be _pissed_ if this is how he goes. “All good?” 

“I’m functioning to acceptable parameters,” the Winter Soldier says. 

“Great,” Sam says. “Awesome.” 

The Winter Soldier keeps staring at him. The VA did not prepare him for this shit. 

“Want a blondie?” he says finally, for lack of anything else. The Winter Soldier frowns, looking confused. 

“A . . . blondie?” he repeats. Sam pushes the tray at him. The Winter Soldier frowns down at it, but picks one up. “Blondie,” he repeats, like he’s reasoning something out. 

“You eat it,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows at him. The Winter Soldier keeps frowning for a moment, then crams the whole thing in his mouth in one bite. He chews twice, then opens his mouth and lets it all fall out, which--gross. 

“That’s not rations,” the Winter Soldier says, sounding almost accusing. Sam eyes the half-chewed lump of blondie on the counter, then eyes him. Okay then. 

“It’s dessert, man,” he says. “You remember dessert, right?” 

“No.” The Winter Soldier is frowning at him again. The man is the most singularly frustrating other omega Sam has ever met, he thinks. 

“You eat it,” he says again. “You _don’t_ spit it out.” 

The Winter Soldier looks at him for a long moment, then the half-chewed blondie. Sam scoops it up with a napkin before he has to watch anything _truly_ gross and by the time he comes back from throwing it out the Winter Soldier’s scarfed half the plate. Sam resists the urge to sigh. He _did_ tell the guy they were for eating. 

Looks like everyone else is getting brownies. 

.

.

.

“Where’d all the sugar go?” Natasha asks, frowning at the cupboard. 

“Eat your brownie,” Sam says. 

.

.

.

Barnes is Barnes today. It’s not hard to tell the difference, really; or maybe Sam just learned the difference _real_ quick. Almost getting stabbed by a guy’s amnesiac half will do that to you. Sam drags him grocery shopping because Steve’s sleeping off a gut wound on the other side of the planet and super-soldiers can carry a lot more groceries than the regular kind. It goes fine right up until someone drops a jar of mayonnaise a couple aisles over and Barnes has a episode right in the middle of the store: he goes from bickering about jam flavors to whipping out a knife Sam didn’t even know he had and--

“I don’t know how to take this,” Sam says, realizing the Winter Soldier has shoved him into a corner and dropped into a guard position in front of him, growling like an alpha. The mere fact the guy has turned his back to him is honestly baffling from a dude who once ripped a steering wheel out of not only his hands but his _car_. Also, the last time the Winter Soldier had his back to him, Sam had kicked him in it. 

Is he insulted that he’s not registering on the threat radar? He thinks he’s insulted he’s not registering on the threat radar. 

“Stand down, soldier,” he tries, and the Winter Soldier stops growling and straightens up and looks back over his shoulder at him with a blank expression. The aisle is mercifully empty, so hopefully no one’s calling the cops, but Sam’s not really feeling that reassured. “Give me the knife,” he says. The Winter Soldier does. Sam puts it away _quick_ , because god forbid anybody walk in on that exchange. 

He has no idea what to do, so he calls Steve, who says some _very_ unpatriotic curse words. 

“Just--give him something to do,” he says. “He gets less confused when he has something to do.” 

“Great,” Sam says, “super helpful, Steve.” 

It’s not super helpful. Aren’t betas supposed to be better at handling crisis situations? 

For lack of a better idea, Sam gets the Winter Soldier to carry the groceries. That _is_ what he brought Barnes along for to begin with, so . . . 

Of course, when it’s Barnes he doesn’t feel _bad_ about him carrying the groceries. With the Winter Soldier, he feels like an asshole asking him to do anything. Given the alternative, he gets over it. 

They skip the farmers’ market, though. 

.

.

.

Sam bakes three trays of blondies and a seven-layer cake when they get home. Stress baking is an old habit, but apparently still a thriving one. He kind of fell out of the habit running with the Avengers, but it’s not that hard to slip back into. 

He baked a _lot_ of cakes, his first couple years back home. 

He distracts the Winter Soldier with helping him fetch and carry and stir stuff, and the cake ends up pretty unfortunate-looking but nobody gets maimed or loses a super-soldier assassin before Steve can get back from the Berlin safehouse and talk him down, so Sam considers the afternoon a success. 

.

.

.

“What’s with all the baked goods?” Barnes asks in bemusement. Sam _eyes_ him. 

.

.

.

They don’t return Barnes on time because Wakanda’s apparently having some tribe-relations drama. Sam is not touching that with a ten-foot pole; he does _not_ miss having to worry about politics. Godspeed, T’challa. Unfortunately, this means more time with not only Barnes, but his sad lost murder-puppy of an alter ego. 

Sam bakes a _lot_ of cookies. In his defense, the Winter Soldier seems to have developed an interest in being wherever he is whenever he’s around, which is both very weird and very unsettling. Barnes at least is a normal human being and avoids him. 

The Winter Soldier apparently has a sweet tooth, is the problem, so that’s probably why he’s hanging around. And the more he hangs around, the more stressed Sam gets, and the more stressed Sam gets, the more Sam _bakes_ . . . 

It’s a vicious cycle. 

.

.

.

“Everything alright over there?” Sam asks. 

“. . . is the Soldier eating a _cupcake_?” Natasha asks, squinting through the screen. Sam does not dignify that question with a response. 

.

.

.

“Well, at least you have good taste,” Sam says as he watches the Winter Soldier devour a full plate of raspberry almond thumbprint cookies. He felt like being a little fancier today, on account of being a _lot_ more stressed. They haven’t seen Barnes in three days, which Steve is pretending not to be freaking out about and Nat is pretending not to be mildly concerned by. Sam--Sam is baking. 

At least the Winter Soldier seems to have finally settled into deciding they’re all in charge of him. Sam’s not thrilled about that distinction, but again, it’s better than the alternative. They haven’t had to pull him out of any bodies of water or fight him in any damningly public places, so things are looking up. 

He’s eaten a lot of cookies this week, admittedly, but since he showed up with a jaw about sharp enough to cut _glass_ Sam’s not gonna stop him. 

“What do you think, blackberry next time?” he asks. The Winter Soldier blinks at him, mouth full of jam and cookie. Sam probably could’ve timed that better. 

“What’s a blackberry?” the Winter Soldier says. 

“. . . I have so many tarts to bake you, man.” 

.

.

.

“Hey, tell me what you think of the scones when you’re done,” Sam calls distractedly into the living room as he’s mixing up a batch of cookie batter, because this may be stress-related baking but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it to be _good_ baking, and it’s been a while since his last batch of scones. 

“You made scones?” Barnes asks in bemusement, which is the point when Sam realizes it’s just Barnes sitting on the couch and not the Soldier lurking. But, well--same tastebuds, he figures. 

“You heard me,” he says. 

Barnes eats a scone and says he doesn’t like blackberries. Sam, armed with the knowledge of the four boxes of them the Winter Soldier ate in one sitting, makes a mental note that Barnes is a _liar_ and not to be trusted re: scones. 

Barnes also eats two more scones, so it’s not like he was that convincing to begin with. 

.

.

.

Sam makes blackberry muffins. The batch doesn’t last the night. 

.

.

.

“Jesus,” Barnes says, staring at his phone. Sam’s still not sure why Nat thought it was a good idea to get him that thing, but he seems pretty into Candy Crush. 

“Something wrong?” Sam asks. 

“No.” Barnes covers his mouth with his phone, looking--embarrassed? Is that a thing Barnes actually gets, now? “The Winter Soldier’s been taking pictures.” 

“Of _what_?” Sam asks, genuinely baffled. It’s not like they go out much, and there’s nothing interesting in the safehouse. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Barnes groans, covering his eyes instead. Freaking weirdo. 

.

.

.

Wanda goes offline in London and the Winter Soldier helps Sam make another seven-layer cake. She does that sometimes, but it doesn’t stress him out any less. The Winter Soldier is a meticulous assistant, and Sam’s a little more used to both him and baking again, so the cake comes out a lot better than last time. 

Even the most meticulous assistant is vulnerable to the usual messes of the kitchen, though. 

“You have chocolate,” Sam says, gesturing at his cheek, “like, right here.” 

The Winter Soldier gives him a blank look. Sam sighs, and reaches over to wipe it off himself. The Winter Soldier . . . blinks. And then, weirdly, turns red. Sam blinks back at him, not understanding the reaction. 

“All good?” he asks. 

“Uh-huh,” the Soldier says in an oddly strangled voice. 

Well, at least he’s not trying to stab him, Sam figures. 

.

.

.

Sam is exhausted and restless and can’t sleep, and Barnes--or maybe the Winter Soldier?--is sitting up in the kitchen with a blank expression on his face, so apparently it’s going around. Sam’s too tired to figure out which of him it is, and just talks the man through the process of making mug cookies. They turn out pretty good, all things considered. 

Still no word from Steve or Natasha. 

Man, he hates nights like these. 

.

.

.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Barnes,” Natasha says in her usual casual-not-casual way. 

“The Winter Soldier,” Sam corrects her anyway as he chops up pecans on the cutting board. “Barnes I barely see hide nor hair of.” 

“Hm,” Natasha says, and takes a bite of still-warm cookie. 

.

.

.

“Sam, you’re a saint,” Steve says feelingly. “I don’t know why he’s coming out so much when we’re gone, but you’re handling it perfectly.” 

“It’s really not that big a deal, man,” Sam says, although yeah, of course it is. He’s done way harder in his life, though, and he’s not gonna stop that easy. 

.

.

.

“Yours taste better,” the Winter Soldier says as he makes a face over one of the grocery store sugar cookies that Wanda brought back from her latest disappearance. For once he’s out with other people around, Sam secretly suspects because of the presence of sugar. Steve and Natasha look like they’re waiting for him to pounce, but overall it’s going well. 

“They’re cookies, man, they’re hard to fuck up,” Sam says wryly. 

“No, yours are better.” The Winter Soldier puts his half-eaten cookie down on the counter. “The batches you make turn out better than the ones I do, too.” 

“They do not remotely,” Sam says. He definitely can’t tell the difference between their work at this point, at least as long as frosting’s not involved. The Winter Soldier has issues with frosting. 

“They do.” The Winter Soldier shrugs. “It makes sense. The TV bakers say you need to bake with love. And I don’t have a heart, so . . .” 

“. . . ,” Sam says. 

“Excuse me,” Steve says, getting up from the table. “I don’t think I punched enough HYDRA agents today.” 

“First of all, I make things with stress and despair and as a coping method for my PTSD,” Sam says. “I mean, _some_ love, but mostly the trauma. Secondly, you have a _heart_ , man, oh my god.” 

“I don’t think so,” the Winter Soldier says. “It’s not like I’m a real person.” 

“I’m going to go help Steve,” Natasha says as she gets up too. Sam strongly considers following her, and also strongly considers baking a pie or ten. That _might_ be providing positive reinforcement for a bad, bad idea, though. 

“Believe me, you’re plenty real,” he says. “And I damn sure couldn’t make _souffle_ before I spent six months not being able to sleep at night without screaming.” 

The Winter Soldier doesn’t seem particularly convinced. 

.

.

.

Sam wakes up from a dream about falling and goes to the bathroom to throw up in the sink, then scrubs it clean and heads out into the kitchen. The Winter Soldier--or Barnes, maybe, it’s hard to tell at this hour--pushes a cookie in a mug at him. 

Sam’s not sure what he thinks of that. 

.

.

.

Today is not off to a great start. Steve and Nat are off punching Nazis with no backup, Wanda’s offline, and Sam has stomach cramps and a low-grade fever. Also, he hasn’t seen Barnes in an hour, so he has no idea which one of him’s in the safehouse right now. He feels too shitty to even _bake_ , is how shitty he feels, and in the end he just sits down at the counter and drops his head into his arms, hoping for the mercy of . . . whatever. 

It is so _upsetting_ that Steve and Nat are gone. And Wanda, but mostly Steve and Nat. Why do they keep running off and leaving him behind, they can burn a safehouse or two if they’ve gotta, it’s making him _nuts_ \--

“What’s baking?” Barnes asks as he walks into the kitchen and sniffs. “Smells delicious.” 

Sam’s brain does a record-scratch. 

“Uh . . . me?” he says slowly, and Barnes frowns, expression puzzled. 

“No, _what’s_ baking. It smells like sugar cookies,” he says, and Sam’s ears get hot and he puts his face in his hands. Oh lord. Lord, he does not have the strength for this right now. Of course he’s fucking _early_. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s how my heat pheromones smell. To, uh . . . compatible mates. According to Riley, anyway.” 

Barnes blinks at him, looking like he’s having a record-scratch moment of his own. Then he _leans in_ and _breathes_ in and-- 

“Cinnamon cake, huh,” Sam says stupidly. 

Barnes’s eyes flare wide, and he flees the kitchen. Sam . . . does not blame him, under the circumstances. 

.

.

.

“Minor problem,” Sam says on the phone. 

“Who’s dead,” Steve asks immediately. 

“Okay, _very_ minor problem, Jesus,” Sam says. Admittedly, the scale of “problems” in their life is a little skewed. “Barnes and I are going into heat. Both. Simultaneously. In unison. At the same time, one might even say.” 

“What?” Steve says, sounding alarmed. 

“It’s fine, we’re fine, we’re all good up here, don’t worry about it,” Sam says. “Just keep kicking HYDRA ass, we’ll get through it fine. Just wanted to keep you updated. Because, you know. Updated. And . . . stuff.” 

He does not feel like he’s being especially reassuring here. 

“Did you know he smells like _cinnamon cake_ , Steve?” he finds himself asking without even meaning to. There’s silence on the line for a long moment. 

“Yeah. I know,” Steve answers quietly. 

Sam hangs up on him and bakes six dozen cinnamon twists. 

It’s not very helpful. 

.

.

.

“What are you _doing_ ,” Barnes says. Sam looks around the admittedly slightly trashed kitchen. Every spare inch of it is covered in baked goods or ingredients. He’s currently kneading bread. He hasn’t made bread in _years_. 

“I really don’t know, man,” he says helplessly. He’s a week early for his heat and Barnes is clearly going into one too, so one of them obviously must’ve set off the other, which really implies a level of closeness he was not prepared to have with either a super-soldier assassin or someone as annoying as Barnes. He signed up to save the world, not have weird sexual tension he wasn’t even _aware_ of with Captain America’s best friend. 

This would be a lot easier if someone else were here. Specifically Natasha, so he could call dibs and drag her off to his den and get _knotted_ instead of baking this truly unforgivable amount of pies and having to deal with Barnes being . . . _Barnes_. Barnes being Barnes is Steve’s problem. 

At least the Winter Soldier helps him bake. 

“This is a fucking hot mess,” Barnes says, and Sam kind of laughs because where the _hell_ did Barnes even pick up that particular turn of phrase and also why does he smell so goddamn good and _look_ so goddamn-- 

“I wanna take a bite of you,” he says. 

Barnes’s eyes flare wide again, and Sam honestly expects him to flee again too. It kind of looks like he tries to, except he knocks over a stack of mixing bowls and then has to catch them and then ends up covered with powdered sugar and it’s sort of hilarious but also sort of a problem because now Barnes is _covered in powdered sugar_.

“Ngh,” Sam says, biting his lip. 

“Fuck,” Barnes says. 

.

.

.

Anyway, powdered sugar tastes good on Barnes. 

.

.

.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Sam groans, knocking his head back against the cupboard with a rattle and nearly knocking a measuring cup off the counter he’s sitting on. Barnes is on his knees and eating him out like he thinks he’s fucking _cream_ -filled, which is not helping him keep it together. 

The kitchen is definitely going to need cleaned after this. 

“All good?” Barnes pants, and Sam digs his fingers into his hair. 

“Don’t fucking _stop_ ,” he says. Barnes shows a wonderful capacity for listening and gets back to work. Sam nearly slips off the counter twice as he watches him, not in the least because watching him also affords him a pretty decent view of the hand Barnes has between his own thighs and just how slick and slippery it’s getting. 

Also, Barnes is really _good_ at eating ass. Sam definitely has no complaints. 

“Damn, you’re good at this,” he groans, digging a heel into the back of the other’s shoulder and trying to straighten up against the cupboards but nearly slipping again because Barnes just does-- _something_ with his tongue, oh God, oh hell--“Do that _again_!” 

Barnes is a _really_ good listener. 

.

.

.

“Come on, babe, c’mere, c’mere, let me get my _hands_ on you--” 

.

.

.

_“Oh--”_

.

.

.

“More,” Barnes pleads, pushing his forehead into the tabletop and scratching the finish with metal fingers, his other hand groping back towards Sam. Sam catches it with his free hand and bites the inside of his wrist, twisting the fingers inside him. Barnes _yelps_. Sam holds onto his arm and leans over him, weighing him down into the table he’s bent over as he works in another finger or two, and Barnes keeps keening into the table, moving back into him greedily. Considering how few nice things he’s gotten lately and how many nice things he’s given _Sam_ in the past fifteen minutes, Sam is more than willing to indulge him. 

“How’s that feel, that enough?” he asks, because nobody said he couldn’t tease the guy a little. 

“ _Knot_ me,” Barnes gasps. And Sam--

Well, Barnes _asked_. It’s not hard at all to tuck his thumb into his palm and go just that little--bit-- _deeper_ \-- 

Barnes comes around his fist and accidentally punches his fingers straight through the table. Sam flexes his hand inside him just to wring out a few more aftershocks, and the table _definitely_ isn’t recovering. 

“Nice,” he says, grinning into the skin of Barnes’s back. 

“You smell so _good_ ,” Barnes moans, and Sam takes the excuse to lick across the powdered-sugar-covered scent glands in the other’s throat and earns a full-body shudder for it. He thinks he did a pretty good job. 

.

.

.

Barnes is pretty satisfied, if the way he eats Sam out all over again is enough to testify. 

.

.

.

“Jesus,” Sam mutters breathlessly at one point or another from a naked tangle with Barnes in-between heat spikes, though he’s already feeling hot and bothered enough to go again. Barnes makes a muffled noise against his stomach, clearly not intending to move until his hormones get the better of him. Sam puts a hand on his head and Barnes shudders, so that probably won’t be long. “You still in there?” 

“You smell so good,” Barnes says again, nuzzling into his stomach. So yeah, _definitely_ won’t be long. 

“We should really eat something,” Sam says. The closest thing is cranberry muffins, so that’s what he grabs. Barnes lifts his head exactly enough to eat one out of his hand, which--well. Sam’s not complaining, put it that way. Especially not when Barnes starts licking up the crumbs that landed on his chest. They should also get something to drink, Sam knows, but his priorities are a little . . . not in that direction, he’d say. 

Basically nowhere near that direction, honestly. 

“Ngh,” he says. 

“I’m gonna eat you out again,” Barnes says, moving down his body. 

“Well, if you _gotta_.” 

.

.

.

“Sam!” The front door swings open, and Sam jumps so hard he nearly hits his head on the underside of the table. Barnes makes a _very_ disappointed noise and drags him back down, and Sam kind of forgets what’d distracted him until--

“Alpha,” he says, practically _feeling_ his pupils dilate as he catches a familiar scent. 

“Natalia,” Barnes sighs dreamily, nuzzling into his throat. Sam looks over just in time to catch Natasha crouching down to his eye level. 

“And here we were in a rush,” she says, mouth quirking in amusement. “You two doing alright?” 

“Pretty okay,” Sam says. Barnes nuzzles into his throat again and starts mouthing up to his jaw. Sam is not complaining. “Hey, did you know Barnes smells like cinnamon cake?” 

“I noticed,” Natasha says wryly as Steve appears beside her and pushes an open water bottle at both of them. Sam takes his on reflex and takes a distracted sip; Barnes has to be coaxed away from his neck first but slams his immediately after that. “Eaten anything?” 

“A muffin,” Sam says. 

“Wilson,” Barnes says, his mouth already back on Sam’s skin. Again, he’s not complaining. “And a muffin.” 

“Well, that’s a start,” Natasha says. “Can I touch you, Sam?” 

“Mm.” He nods distractedly, mostly concerned with how good she smells in this close; Natasha can touch him anytime she wants, as far as he’s concerned. She pushes a hand up the back of his neck and he sighs, eyes drifting half-shut. Steve’s going through the same thing with Barnes, except when he asks “Can I touch you, Buck?” he ends up with an immediate lapful of greedy, pushy omega and nearly gets knocked over. Barnes throws his arms around his neck and kisses him like--well, like it’s been seventy years, probably. It occurs to Sam that maybe he shouldn’t be watching, but Barnes is already grabbing one of Steve’s hands to pull between his thighs and clearly doesn’t care _who_ sees. 

Sam can sort of see the practicality of the approach, actually. 

“Nat,” he says, pushing his mouth into her temple. She hums, skimming a hand up his naked side. 

“Sam,” she says. “Sorry we’re late.” 

“S’okay.” He leans into her and she takes his weight easily, still petting lightly up and down his side. Barnes is already halfway through getting Steve’s pants off, because he clearly has _no_ patience. Steve’s got his hands all over him already, though, so maybe that’s just both of them. Sam, personally, is fine with waiting, as long as he knows he’s gonna get what he’s waiting for in the end. 

“Well, you seem to have taken care of each other well enough,” Natasha says. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, and kisses her. She kisses back, and he hums contentedly into it as her hand skates up his side again. 

Alright, maybe he doesn’t mind watching the safehouse _that_ much.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


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